Upstairs, the children sleep, deep in an innocence she can't recall because she never had it. It startles her, sometimes, that she has a part in weaving gentleness through their slowly gathering years. She boils espresso on the stovetop, in an aptly battered pot she inherited from her father. Sometimes in winter, when morning light comes late and the dark dawn is reflected pain-deep in the pot's dents, she forgets he's dead.
that never fade